


the neighbors must think that we're crazy, baby

by simplicityy



Category: Elite (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Enemies to Lovers, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29593656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplicityy/pseuds/simplicityy
Summary: Artisanal pasta making had been part of the Caleruega family legacy for generations. Carla was perfectly content running her quaint little shop in downtown Madrid until one day, when a rough around the edges competitor opened up right across the street and a rivalry based on more than just pasta was born.
Relationships: Carla Rosón Caleruega/Samuel García Domínguez
Comments: 11
Kudos: 27





	the neighbors must think that we're crazy, baby

_It's a comfort to always find pasta in the cupboard and garlic and parsley in the garden._

\-- Alice Waters

___

There were few things worse than this in her book. If there was one thing Carla was sure of when she first crossed paths with Samuel Garcia, up and coming pasta maker and a welcome challenger in the artisanal pasta market in downtown Madrid, it was that he was going to be a pain in the ass. People started wars over less.  
  
Carla didn’t choose the pasta life, the pasta life chose her. It was an avenue her family went down generations ago, and abuela Caleruega herself had been the one to help her roll out her first batch of dough at the ripe old age of three. No one in Madrid understood pasta like she did; she was sure of that.   
  
The first hint of trouble had been when he opened up right across the street from her. They were vying for the same clientele, and while Carla enjoyed a good rivalry as much as the next person, it had immediately started to affect business. 

The winter months had passed rather quickly and without too much trouble — her trusted customers were seeking out quick comfort in the form of pasta as Madrid slowly turned grey and lifeless. What better way to spend a lazy January Saturday than with a delicious bowl of carbonara? 

However, spring was proving to be difficult. While the weather was sunny and light outside, dark clouds were gathering above her head and wreaking havoc on Carla’s usual composure. Just now, in fact, Samuel himself had unexpectedly walked into the shop, throwing a beseeched smirk her way as he entered the premises. 

“Long time no see, marquesa.” 

Carla pursed her mouth and threw him a cold look, gaze landing on his dirty trainers that were leaving muddy footprints on the marble floor. She would have to mop the floor once again this afternoon, a rather frustrating addition to her existing to-do list. 

They had only ever interacted a handful of times, and each encounter was more unpleasant than the last. Any pleasantries exchanged had quickly dried up after their initial introduction, in which he had managed to insult not just her taste in restaurant decorations but her entire _family_. It hadn’t been on purpose, but it did leave a sour taste in her mouth. Truthfully, while Carla couldn’t admit this to anyone but herself, certainly not to Samuel, she thought he was something else entirely. His entire demeanor, from the beat up outfits that resembled those of a young pop star rather than a true chef, to the lopsided smile and the mischievous glint in his eye was different. It made for an intriguing presence. 

“Are you here looking for new ideas to steal?”  
  
No, she wasn’t going to get over his stealing of her abuela’s special recipe anytime soon. Really, she should have known him coming over for a friendly chat had been too out of character for him back then. But he looked the way he did, and he’d smiled at her all charming and fond and slightly over the top, so she’d served him the spinach linguine he asked for without a second thought.  
  
A paying customer was a paying customer, after all. She hadn’t expected him to rip off the dish and add it to his own menu only days later.  
  
At present time, Samuel ran a hand through his dishevelled hair sheepishly, as if he was uncomfortable. It served him right, Carla mused, glad he was struggling in her presence. She enjoyed how much she was able to rattle him with words and simple glances. 

“No, I…” Samuel hesitated, a certain guarded look appearing on his face. 

Carla rolled her eyes, fighting a smile that was beginning to form on her lips. 

“Well, spit it out, pasta thief.” 

Samuel stepped closer to her, taking in the immaculately placed pesto jars and the silver tray of home-made churros on the counter. She was behind the counter, and he was now right in front of it, a little too close for comfort. Carla felt a shiver run down her spine. God, what was wrong with her? 

“I am testing out a new recipe,” Samuel began slowly. “And I was wondering whether… whether you would like to try and cook it with me.” 

Carla’s face paled. Surely, he was joking. Samuel was looking at her expectantly and the blonde gave him another one of her famous piercing looks. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

Samuel laughed. 

“Don’t worry. This way, you can make sure I won’t steal anything else from you.” He smiled at her conspiratorially and moved his hand so it was right next to hers on the cold quartz counter. “You will have full control over the process.” 

Everything inside Carla was screaming at her to just say no. And yet, she felt sort of endeared. Despite all the shallow fights they’d had, some of them more violent than others, she felt an inherent pull towards the handsome man currently taking up space in her little shop.  
  
“Why in the world would I ever collaborate with you?”  
  
The look on his face was priceless to say the least. She had already decided to go along with his suggestion, but first, she wanted to see him suffer. As the superior pasta chef in the room, that only felt right.  
  
Samuel’s hand moved slightly, and then his pinky finger was brushing hers, rough calluses from hours of dough handling colliding with her own. Before she had the chance to pull away, his hand covered hers, and she couldn’t help but roll her eyes at herself for letting it happen. Here she was, at twenty-seven, an accomplished culinary genius with several awards to her name and in charge of a shop that had been passed down for generations, and yet a simple touch from the adorkable, if oddly charming, pastafarian across the street could make her stomach feel turned on its head.  
  
“Fine. But we are _not_ using macaroni.”  
  
Perhaps it was odd that they had already established a set of inside jokes, even though she wouldn’t consider him a friend. His macaroni were the shop special, and on more than one occasion she’d heard her regular customers whisper about them when they looked through her display case and found it devoid of the tube-shaped pasta. It was obvious they were his shape of choice.

Her competitor was clearly amused by her answer and Carla cleared her throat, a decision forming in her mind. 

“We will go with _cavatelli_ instead.” 

“Interesting choice. What other ingredients were you thinking?” 

Carla furrowed her brow, making a quick mental list of everything she had lying around in the kitchen downstairs. Her weekly delivery hadn’t arrived yet but they would make do. Carla was nothing if not resourceful. 

“Zucchini, Romaine lettuce, Parmigiano Reggiano, peeled cherry tomatoes, rosemary…” 

She paused for a moment, lost in thought.

“And thyme?” Samuel offered. 

“I think this dish would work better with basil, actually.” 

Samuel clicked his tongue appreciatively. He was positively leering at her. 

“Shall we get started then?” 

Carla nodded, swallowing hard. She tried to keep her hands still and stop them from combing through her hair in nervous anticipation. 

“Yes.” Her expression hardened. “And wipe that stupid smirk off your face.” 

She needed to get a grip, fast. 

___ 

If anyone would have asked her how she was going to spend her Tuesday afternoon even just an hour ago, Carla would not have been able to predict it in her wildest dreams. The blonde had no idea how she’d ended up here — frantically stirring pasta sauce in her cast-iron skillet pan while Samuel Garcia, of all people, was folding dough to proof next to her.  
  
All she knew was she was getting hungrier by the second, and it had nothing to do with the enticing scent of basil filling her nostrils. It was the tension in the air that made her calculate how long it might take them to make it up the two flights of stairs to her bedroom. 

She would steal glances at him every now and then and couldn’t help but admire the shift, efficient way he worked or how elegantly his hands were handling all the ingredients. Their arms would brush once in a while and Carla subtly shook herself — attributing the sudden spike in temperature to the burning hot stove in front of her. 

Halfway through their impromptu cookout, Carla had poured them both a generous glass of Sauvignon Blanc, and she was starting to feel it, now that it stood ruefully empty. Samuel looked over at her, wiping at his cheek with a floured-up hand. Despite herself, she giggled when she noticed the white line left right below his eye.  
  
Instead of the rival he was, all she saw was a surprisingly charming man covered in enough flour to make another batch of dough.  
  
“You have…” She bit her lip, wondering whether she wanted to let him know. It looked all kinds of adorable. “There’s some flour on your face.”  
  
As if to spite her, Samuel wiped at his other cheek now, adding a matching stripe of flour to the left side of his face. “Did I get it all?”  
  
Turning the stove off to avoid further simmering, she glanced at him and shook her head. It was as though she was a woman possessed, considering her inability to stop smiling. If anyone were to ask her, she would’ve blamed it on the very excellent bottle of wine.  
  
Samuel reached up again, this time adding a sizable mark to his chin as well, and even though his motives were blatant, she still grinned at him as she rolled her eyes and stepped closer. He looked dazed at having her so close. She loved how easy it was to read him. Using the kitchen towel she kept fastened to her apron, she wiped his face for him.  
  
“There.”  
  
As she went to move away, Samuel brushed her hair behind her ear and fixed his eyes on hers. Time seemed to slow down. Carla suddenly wasn’t sure whether her heart had always sounded like this in her own ears, a hectic unrelenting thudding, and she couldn’t quite remember how to speak. She should speak, she thought, but the words had all gone.  
  
Her mind was blank. All she could think about was the feeling of his hand, now resting heavy on her shoulder, slipping under the strap of her apron.  
  
Gathering her courage, she pulled her lips up into a smirk.  
  
“Aren’t you going to kiss me, Garcia?”  
  
And then he pounced. His lips were on hers, the ball of dough he’d been working long forgotten behind them as he pushed her up onto the counter. Carla could feel the flour collecting in her hair. She didn’t care; this felt too good. 

Samuel deepened the kiss, his hand moving up the knobs of her spine and Carla let out an involuntary gasp. Then, she found herself kissing him back eagerly, again and again while alarm bells were going off in her mind. A part of her still couldn’t believe this was happening, that this devilish neighbourhood boy, her sworn enemy, could make her feel _so much_. 

Just when Carla was ready to wrap her legs around his waist and jump up onto the counter, everything be damned, Samuel abruptly pulled away, staring at her with an impossibly fond look in his eyes. 

For a fraction of a moment in time, she was speechless and the two of them just stood there as seconds ticked by slowly, his hands still in her hair and Carla’s lips still buzzing from the kiss. 

“What?” she finally snapped, seeing as Samuel clearly wasn’t going to say anything. 

“Nothing,” he laughed throatily. “It’s just… I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.” 

Carla huffed in faux annoyance. 

“Well, if you hadn’t stolen my grandmother’s recipe, we could’ve done this a long time ago,” she joked. 

Samuel let out a full-blown laugh now, looking at her in wonder.

“I only used it for inspiration because you're the most talented pasta chef in town.” He bit his lip. “There’s no way I could have ever kept up with you otherwise.” 

Carla was taken aback by the underlying tone of sincerity in his voice. Was this really how Samuel saw her? Her stomach did a little somersault and she grinned up at him, with just a hint of smugness. 

“You’re not too bad yourself.” On impulse, she reached out for his hand, entwining their fingers together. “Let me show you out.” 

Samuel grasped onto her hand and without uttering so much as a word, they trudged back up the stairs to the shop floor, both of them covered head to toe in flour and sprinkles of sauce. Carla came to a standstill by the entrance, pausing for a moment and leaning her head against the shop window as Samuel was momentarily struggling to push the door open. God, he was adorable. 

Suddenly, something occurred to Carla. 

“Fuck,” she blurted out. “We left the sauce on the stove.” 

Samuel turned around in a flash, cursing under his breath. 

“I guess I should stay and help you clean up this mess.“ 

“How about another glass of wine instead?” 

They had both spoken at the same time and now paused, looking at each other in bewilderment. The air was once again thick with anticipation. 

“The dough needs to rest anyway,” Carla said after a beat, attempting to make her intentions clear. 

“But what about the sauce?” 

Carla rolled her eyes at him. The stove was turned all the way down, and any good chef would know the sauce would still be salvageable, even after a few too many minutes of simmering. 

“Just stop talking.” 

Samuel threw her a quick downwards glance and then Carla was dragging him upstairs, clutching onto the worn cotton of Samuel’s apron, the fabric slipping dangerously low on his hips.The pasta-making could surely wait a couple more minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> I finally did it... My first ever fanfic, and it had to be about these two. They really get under your skin, don't they? I would really love to hear what you guys think!


End file.
